He turned right when he reached the lane, and a smile bloomed on his lips, pushing aside those thoughts. Nadya was just coming around the bend, and she lifted a hand in greeting.

He lifted the album in response.

She kicked up into a run, her skirt flapping. Another thing to make him grin. He hadn’t seen her in anything but soldier’s breeches since he met her, until she showed up in Paris. He didn’t much care what she wore, but it was nevertheless amusing to see her looking so much like a normal girl when he knew she was anything but.

“You found it!” Her eyes gleamed as she drew near.

Evgeni shook his head. “Not exactly. It is Zivon’s photo album, that is all. But the woman was quite helpful. She admitted to finding his whole bag and using or selling everything else. She also assured me my bag had not been found.”

Nadya lifted one dubious brow. “Do you believe her?”

Evgeni lifted one shoulder to match her brow. “We certainly haven’t found it elsewhere.” He motioned toward a low stone wall that separated one of the farms from the road and eased himself down, granting reprieve to his aching ribs and sore ankle. “And . . . it’s possible it’s with Zivon, I suppose.”

“What?” It came out as a hiss as she planted herself on the stones beside him.

He rubbed at his midsection. “I’ve been trying to piece together those last moments. So much is a blur. But I think—I think he had ahold of my bag. It could have remained with him. He could have it still.”

Her next hiss sounded like a locomotive running out of steam. “You mean to tell me that your czarist brother has the information our contact gave you? And that he has taken it with him to England?”

“I’m telling you he may have.” Mostly for a distraction, he flipped open the album again. Past the photo of him and Zivon. Matushka. Batya. Alyona with her passel of younger siblings. A few of the Moscow skyline. Newspaper clippings. A few older images.

Nadya rested her elbows on her knees. “Evgeni.”

Time and again he’d tried to get her to use his nickname. But Zhenya never passed her lips, nor did any endearment. He had half a mind to call her milaya sometime just to see what she’d do. “Nadya.”

She tilted her face to look at him. “We both know he was not just an interpreter. He was Intelligence. He . . . he could have information he shouldn’t have.”

“Could . . . or did? Do you know something I don’t?”

Instead of answering, she reached over to turn another page in the album.